Predator - The Honour of the Tribe
by Solandriel
Summary: Dutch and Harrigon team up with an unlikely ally to stop a Predator from hunting beyond his species' rules of engagement
1. 1

1

1

The sun burned incessantly, the heat rising from the rich vegetation, coating Glax'll's skin with sweat. The mask that covered his face fed him with the mix his body needed for sustenance, but it could not stave off the relentless temperatures that battered at his crested skull. He shook his dripping dreadlocks and jumped across to the next tree.

His prey stood below, oblivious to his presence. It's four legs playing lazily with the undergrowth as it covered it's excrement. It's large, powerfully jawed head sniffed the air, catching a whiff of Glax'll's scent. Above it, in the branches, stood the Predator, his shoulder blaster getting a bead on the three laser marks that rested on that same bone-crushing head. The beast roared and sprinted into the undergrowth just as Glax'll fired his blaster, reducing a patch of plantlife to it's component molecules. Glax'll growled impatiently and unstrapped his retractable spear, jumping from tree to tree in pursuit.

The beast crashed through bushes, low-hanging tree branches, and toppled saplings in it's efforts to get away. Glax'll kept pace with it, his powerful leg muscles springing him onwards. His spear was poised, ready to make the final, deadly throw.

Suddenly, a brutal blow struck him in the chest, sending him somersaulting down onto the forest floor. The beast heard the crash behind it and saw the Predator on the ground. It snarled and turned, scraping it's hind limbs, making ready to charge. As it bowed it's massive head, there was a sound like a whipcrack, and a searing beam of light shot out of the treetops, passing straight through the creature's skull. The beast tumble to the ground with a crash that caused the ground to shake beneath Glax'll, jolting him awake.

He looked up to see Gerr'ka, one of his fellow hunters, skinning the beast with his tools. Rage flooded through Glax'll's glowing blood. He leapt to his feet and charged Gerr'ka, bringing him down next to the already stripped carcass. They wrestled around on the ground, trying to free weapons from their hiding places to rip and rend each other. Strong hands intervened.

"Enough!" growled an authoritative voice. Several tribe members were with the one who owned that voice, pulling the two brethren apart. They were held fast by tethers as the leader of the group stepped forward.

Griss'na, the leader reached up and ripped the breath masks from the combatants faces. Their quad-jaws immediately opened, yelling threat and counter-threat. They struggled at their tethers, but they held fast. "Silence!" shouted Griss'na above the din. The young tribe members stopped.

"In all my years as leader of this tribe, I have never seen such dishonour in these contests!"

Gerr'ka hung his head in shame. Glax'll glared at him.

"Gerr'ka, you were seen by the judges cloaked and attacking Glax'll while he was about to make the kill. Do you deny it?"

Gerr'ka faced the chief. "You always favour him! You told me that the contest was about trophies! About winning! I did what I had to do, Father!"

Griss'na openly flinched when his son named him in front of the others. "But not at the expense of the honour of the tribe!" 

"I don't care!"

"No," said Glax'll sardonically, "You obviously don't."

"Talk with respect to your future chief, Glax'll," Gerr'ka snarled.

"Not any longer, Gerr'ka," said Griss'na almost sadly.

"What do you mean?" For the first time, there was fear in the young Predator's eyes. A fear that this dishonour in front of many may bring the ultimate punishment, one which he would never survive to learn from.

"There is only one course of action that can restore honour. You must make the ultimate sacrifice."

Gerr'ka shook his head. "No."

"You must die by your own blade, or face the cord. Honour or dishonour. It's your choice, Gerr'ka."

Gerr'ka bowed his head in defeat. "Very well. I will fall on my sword."

Griss'na nodded and marched away with his honour guard. Those that remained released Glax'll, leading Gerr'ka away to the city to face the tribe's justice.

__________________________________________

The city square was packed to capacity. Word spread very quickly through the Predator community, and Gerr'ka emerged from the shuttle that had taken him here to the snarls and growls of the rest of the tribe. Two tribe members flanked him, spears pointed at him, leading him to where Griss'na stood with his mate, Gaan'flek. Gaan'flek was almost the same height and build as the Chief, apart from the obvious physical differences. She cradled a child in her arms, another hunter in the making, the baby lazily suckling on her breast.

Gerr'ka stood before his chief, who stepped forward. He unclasped Gerr'ka's trophy belt, where so many different skulls, small and medium sized, dangled. Then, he removed Gerr'ka's bandoleer, where an equal number of small skulls and finger and claw bones hung swaying gently.

The ceremony took place in complete silence, as though Griss'na did not acknowledge the Predator that he was stripping of all status and worth. Griss'na offered Gerr'ka the sword with which he had to perform his final act, the act that would restore him to honour and allow him to be buried with his trophies.

Glax'll stood a little behind the chief, his expression blank.

Gerr'ka took the sword, his grip slick on the hilt from the sweat on his palms. He looked at the serrated blade and realised that he was not ready to die yet, not even for the honour of a decent burial. He reversed his grip on the hilt, pointing the blade at his stomach. As he swung the blade down, he side-stepped and skewered the guard to his left in the midriff. The guard roared in pain as the blade was pulled out, opening the wound further and splattering his glowing blood onto the floor of the podium.

As he removed the blade, Gerr'ka switched his grip and swung the blade heavily, decapitating the other guard before he could react. The Chief was so stunned that he did not react immediately. Gerr'ka took his chance and leapt from the podium, using the heads of his fellow tribe members as stepping stones towards the shuttle. Shouts and cries of alarm swept through the crowd. Laser sights flashed into life from several crowd members, firing off laser shards from every direction. All of them miraculously missed Gerr'ka as he jumped off the crowd and ran up the side of the ship and into the entrance. He pressed a button and closed the doors behind him, running for the cockpit.

A few Predators hammered at the entrance door as the engines hummed into life. A bright glow issued forth from the thrusters and the tribe was forced to move away. Having no heavy artillery made it impossible to Gerr'ka making his getaway in the ship as it lifted off the ground and hurtled into the sky, heading for outer space, and freedom.

_____________________________________________

Griss'na sat before the City Council, the ten most senior tribe members, discussing the unprecedented events of that fateful day. Never before had a tribe member refused honour. Never before had one chosen the path of dishonour by murdering his fellows and fleeing from his duty and responsibility. Many Council members remained silent through the exchange of words, so shocked were they by the events at hand.

"Gerr'ka must be pursued," said Griss'na, "His honour has been severely compromised, and there is no telling where he will go and what he will do."

"I know where he is going," said a voice from the shadows that echoed throughout the chamber. The figure stepped forward. It was Glax'll, playing with his discus. "As for what he will do…he'll probably do all that he knows. Hunt."

"But where?"

"His ship is heading for the other side of the galaxy. If I may be permitted, I would like to go and capture him so that he may receive our justice."

A murmur ran through the council. Clearly, this was an idea they all agreed on as there was much nodding of heads. Griss'na looked into Glax'll's eyes.

"Are you sure you are ready for this, Glax'll? You have not passed the final trials."

"Consider this my final trial, my Chief. If I fail, then I will not return. It's as simple as that."

Griss'na nodded. "What you say makes sense, of course." The Chief turned to one of the guards. "See to it that Glax'll has access to the armoury, and ready him a ship to pursue Gerr'ka."

The guard nodded and walked out of the chamber to make the arrangements.

"Glax'll, your wish has been granted. Your actions will be rewarded on your return."

Glax'll bowed and marched proudly out of the chamber to prepare for his journey.

__________________________________________

Glax'll stood in the armoury, a massive room which he never thought he would see this season. He imagined himself doing at least two more seasons before being allowed to hunt on his own. Now, suddenly, here he was, making ready for his first, and possibly his last trip.

But the prey was a little unusual to say the least.

He was hunting one of his own.

In the entire history of their race, Glax'll had never heard of that happening before. Hopefully, his actions would ensure that it would never happen again.

He remembered playing with Gerr'ka when they were children; hide and seek games to hone their hunting and stealth skills; the time when Gerr'ka had stolen the cloaking device from his father and used it to terrify him in the forest; when they first started weapons training and got equal scores in the discus throwing. All these memories came flooding back, all of them now tinged with an air of sadness at his friend's sudden turning. Honour was everything to him. It was everything to the Tribe.

And it had to be preserved at all costs.


	2. 2

2

2

The ship hurtled through the inky blackness of space. The pinpricks of light flew past the cockpit window as the ship's speed began to climb towards the speed of light. Gerr'ka always hated this moment; the moment before the ship broke the light barrier and went into the shadowy realm of hyperspace.

The instruments told him that he was moments away. They also told him that another ship was entering his vicinity, and was not far behind. He did not need to identify the ship on the scanner to know that a ship from his homeworld pursued him. He also did not need to be psychic to know that his pursuer was bound to be Glax'll. _That one never did know when to quit, _he thought.

He looked through the astrogation computer for some pre-plotted courses to favoured hunting grounds. He selected a world that was situated on the other side of the galaxy - all the better to evade capture - then set the course and went to the back of the ship to prepare for the arrival. Whoever was chasing him would be able to tell in a few minutes which course he was laying by entering his database and leeching the information. He did not have a lot of time.

He opened the weapons cabinet and selected a retractable spear, a laser-powered discus, a net-gun, skinning equipment, and a serrated sword, very much like the one that he was asked to take his own life with.

His mind drifted back to those events a few short hours before, events that changed his status amongst all the Predator tribes on his homeworld. If he returned now, he would be destroyed on sight.

Before he could prepare himself fully, the ship broke through the speed of light and entered the dimensional gateway that would fling his ship through the galaxy like a slingshot. For a brief moment, the scanners lost the other ship, but picked it up again as it moved into his hyperspace corridor. 

Glax'll knew exactly where he was heading.

___________________________________________

Mike Harrigon was not enjoying early retirement. Nor was he enjoying the amount of attention that the media were paying to him. Ever since the incident in Los Angeles in 1997, things had not gone right for him. Women were not interested in dating a maverick ex-cop with violent tendencies and who could be crazy enough to believe half the stuff he was saying on talk shows and to the newspapers whenever they questioned him.

His new home, amusingly called The Haven, was a golden handshake, along with his sizeable pension, for the years of service he gave to the LAPD. And the few days that were to change his life forever.

He wandered across his sumptuously furnished lounge to the mantelpiece and picked up the duelling pistol. The carved and varnished wood that coated the barrel, the brass plaque naming Lord Montague as it's owner and the year it was crafted, all looking as though the pistol were made only yesterday. Nearly ten years after his meeting with the Predators, he was still trying to figure it out. How could something that was nearly 300 years old look so damn new? He knew he wouldn't get the answers where he was sitting.

He picked up the mug from the mahogany coffee table and drained the last dregs of his fourth caffeine injection. He absently breathed on his hand and sniffed. _No wonder you don't meet nobody, you stink of fuckin' coffee!_ He smiled to himself.

Deciding that going out and being bored was preferable to staying in and being bored, he grabbed the keys to his pick-up truck, strode out of the front door, and, moments later, was putting his vehicle through it's paces on the dirt-track leading from his home.

________________________________________________

Several hundred miles from where former Lieutenant Harrigon was dusting up his own personal highway, General Dutch Henderson sat at his desk looking out of the window of his office at the new recruits and youngbloods that both trotted and marched through his barracks. The rhythmic chanting of some of the troops floated up to him, jogging all sorts of memories, some of them fond, most of them frightening.

The sight of Jim Hopper hanging from the trees with two of his comrades still haunted his nightmares. The stench of the stripped and skinned corpses assailed his nostrils when he woke with sweat dripping from his face. But, he kept silent about them. After all, he didn't want to lose his command because of a psychiatric evaluation.

He rose from his seat, wincing as his shoulder moved. The scar tissue from the laser blast still gave him problems. He guessed they always would. He certainly wouldn't see any action anymore. _Not in this lifetime, Dutch_.

He opened the army issue cabinet and pulled out the bottle of ten-year-old scotch that he had been slowly whittling down over the past few days. Drugs never seemed to touch the pain from his shoulder; only alcohol seemed to work. He theorised that the wound didn't respond to pain-killers because it was of alien origin. The most likely answer though was that the wound was merely reminding him that because the wound cauterised, he did not bleed to death and he should count himself lucky.

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and took a slug. The fiery liquid seared down his throat. He grimaced every time; no-one could get used to this. He closed the bottle and put it back. After a few minutes, the pain would ease for a while. A little comfort went a long way.

He looked out of the window once more. The men outside were falling out as chow time was called on the bugle. Time to mingle with the men in the mess hall.

Dutch picked up his hat, the thing he hated the most about his uniform, and planted it on his head, suppressing a sigh as he went out to join his men in the mess.

_________________________________________________

Gerr'ka noted with satisfaction that he was nearly at his destination. The scope told him that he was only a few minutes from leaving hyperspace.

He placed his breath mask over his face, fixing the tubes that would provide the proper mixture of gases for his survival on this highly populated world. The ship's sensors zeroed in on a part of the planet that was closest to the temperature of his homeworld and jolted out of hyperspace to face a blue world that swirled with clouds, occasionally showing patches of land. The ship moved into atmospheric penetration position, angling itself to produce the minimum amount of friction and heat against the cockpit window. As he entered Earth's atmosphere, his scanner showed a fleeting glimpse of another ship exiting hyperspace. He grunted his frustration, convinced that he had lost Glax'll but now being proven wrong.

The ship broke through the atmosphere, bursting it's way through the cloud layer, and Gerr'ka looked out for a safe place to land. He flicked a switch and the ship was cloaked in the light-bending shield that he used himself for hunting. He found a site, deep in a forest, making a clearing with the ship's retro thrusters. As soon as the ship had landed, he was shutting down everything except the cloaking shield and making his way to the exit doors, retractable spear in hand. 

He did not have much time, and he knew that Glax'll would be right behind him.

_____________________________________________


	3. 3

3

3

The camouflage made Eddie blend in perfectly with his surroundings. The weapon in his hand felt good. It rested snugly in his arms, a finger hovering over the safety, ready to shoot anyone that crossed his path. _Max will be the first to go, he always gets caught straight away._

He adjusted his goggles and looked furtively around. He spotted one of the other guys sneaking through the bushes towards him. He grinned. The loping figure making it's way through the brush had to be Max. That guy was an asshole. He was always kissing Tom's ass, so the description fitted perfectly.

He turned slowly, training his gun on the hapless Max, and fired. A splat of yellow appeared on Max's shoulder. Max looked at it and said, "Son of a bitch!" He stood up. Several splotches now began to appear on Max's once pristine uniform. He threw his gun down in frustration and walked off in the opposite direction, a final patch of paint appearing on his back.

"You're not supposed to shoot someone in the back!" he shouted over his shoulder. Laughter sprang up around him and several heads popped up out of the nearby bushes. The rest of Max's office jeered and shouted at him as he went back to base camp. He gave his colleagues a two-fingered salute and moved on. He cursed and stopped, then went back to pick up his gun. As he picked it up, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned towards the source of the disturbance, but couldn't see anything. All he could see was the haze coming up from the vegetation as the searing heat reached the zenith of midday. He turned once more and walked off, leaving them to their massacre. It was as he turned he heard a scream from the nearby bushes.

"Come on, guys, I think that's enough now!" he said, his frustration really showing now. His face was red, and it wasn't just from the heat. Then he noticed that the laughter had stopped.

"Guys?" he cried, holding his gun in a reflexively defensive position. He was waiting for them to leap out and spray him again. He whirled round at another strangled scream, hoping against hope that it was another fake. But was the first one fake? He wasn't sure he would like to find out.

He looked in the direction of the scream as saw on of his friends climbing a tree. At least that's how it looked at first glance. It was definitely something wearing camouflage going up it. Then he noticed that the arms were where the legs should be. He also noticed that the face on that body was a lifeless rictus of fear and pain. He began to panic, sweat breaking out on his face.

Then he heard the purring.

It was faint, about the same distance as the body. Then he could see the heat haze again, just above the dragging corpse.

The heat haze was moving.

He almost cried out. Thinking better of it, he forced his legs to turn him and ran through the undergrowth, heading for base camp and help. So when he heard another strange noise, a high pitched buzzing noise, he did not stop to investigate it. As the noise got louder, as though it was chasing him, he could not help himself. He turned just in time to see a large metal discus spinning towards his face, sparks flying from it's surface.

It was his last sight on earth before the discus sliced his head clean in half.

_________________________________________

At what the paintball range amusingly called base camp, the supervisors were watching the clock, wondering what had happened to the team of executives they had sent out.

"I'm going out to the site. Wanna come?" said Ernest, the clock watcher. He was of a slightly overweight build, with muscles that were trying to get out.

"I'll wait here. Tell them they owe us another three hundred bucks!" said Will, the skinnier of the partnership. He went back to reading his firearms magazine.

Ernest grabbed a paint rifle and walked out of the office, pushing the bead curtain aside.

Will looked up from his magazine at a cry from Ernest. Will laughed. "I keep tellin' ya to watch the goddamn step!"

"Wanna come?" said Ernest from behind the curtain.

"I told ya, I'm waitin'…" Will froze as he saw the bead curtain was pushed aside. He was staring at Ernest's slack jawed, decapitated head seemingly hovering in mid air.

"Wanna come?" The voice almost seemed to be coming from Ernest's mouth.

Gerr'ka revealed himself, his shield dissolving away as he calmly put Ernest's head down on the counter. He clenched his right fist. Blades emerged from his wristband.

"Wanna come?" he asked again.

Will screamed as the blades were driven into his stomach. He was lifted from the floor by the immense form of Gerr'ka, his head hitting the ceiling so savagely that his neck broke. Gerr'ka snatched the blades out and dropped Will's body on the floor.

Gerr'ka squatted down and set to work

____________________________________________

The discovery of the massacre at Rumble in the Jungle paintball park was not discovered for several hours. No other bookings were arranged for that day, and it was only a call from a worried relative that prompted the police to send a token squad car to the site. Half an hour later, the place was swarming with cops.

They found all the bodies hanging in the trees, skinned beyond the point of visual recognition. A couple had no heads. Their entrails lay in a bloody heap below the swinging corpses. Wyoming state police had never seen anything like this, but they had heard of it. California saw several gruesome murders just like this five years before.

Detective Murray looked at the scene with disgust and dismay. He stood with his arms crossed in shirt sleeves. "Fuck me…" he muttered. He turned away from the bodies as the coroner arrived with a fleet of 'meat wagons' as the Detective affectionately called them. Forensics had done their job and were glad to be going home. Officers were slowly filing away, shaking their heads. One was still in the bushes throwing up.

Above it all, in the treetops, sat the concealed figure of Glax'll, listening in on the various conversations. He looked at the weapons that were bagged up on the grass. He zoomed in with his visual display. They seemed to be metal, but he could not see any heat coming from them. Then, he heard a loud noise overhead. He looked up and saw a silver helicopter flying above the treetops and into the clearing below. Police officers scattered to make way for the chopper and it landed close to the blood spattered office. Several men climbed out, wearing FBI issued clothing, followed by two men in suits. All of them wore sunglasses.

Special Agent Garber watched his unit from the OWLF section of the FBI go about their work. Some went over to the bodies as they were being stretchered away by the coroners. Others searched among the bushes. Detective Murray did not appreciate the intrusion, however, and he made his presence felt. The FBI men simply pushed him away and flashed their badges. Murray spotted Garber standing next to the helicopter which was winding down. He marched angrily over to him.

"What the fuck is this?" he shouted over the noise of the rotor blades as they slowed down.

"Sorry to step on your toes, Detective," said Garber, pulling out his badge from his breast pocket. "Special Agent Garber, FBI."

"I know you're FBI, but what the fuck are you doing here?"

"We've been investigating a group of serial killers making their way across the state. It seems we have our next victims here. Same MO."

"I've not been told about anything like this! Last I heard of this sort of thing happening was in LA in '97."

"That's right," said Garber looking up at the treetops behind him, "But we never actually caught them." He took his sunglasses off and looked at Murray, his eyes startlingly clear, almost cold.

"But we will this time."

___________________________________________


	4. 4

4

Glax'll watched the silver helicopter depart with it's gruesome cargo, knowing that Gerr'ka would not appreciate having to chase after his trophies. He remembered the helicopter from the tales of the last hunting group to approach this planet, and he knew that the people who travelled in it were intent on capturing one of his kind. Perhaps they hoped that Gerr'ka would follow them.

He watched Detective Murray from his treetop hideaway, talking to another police officer. His voice sampler was activated, recording every word of the conversation.

"Serial killers, my ass!" said Murray irritably, "This looks too neat for that. Why would they take the trouble of hanging around skinning these guys before taking off?"

His partner nodded. "It's ludicrous. Whoever did this must have worked really fast to stop others from noticing what was going on. I refuse to believe that nobody tried to raise the alarm." Sergeant Cole looked trouble as he finished, glancing up at where Glax'll was cloaked in the trees.

Murray noticed Cole's distractedness. "What?"

"I dunno. I just got the feeling that we were being watched."

Murray looked past Cole into the trees. He could see nothing save a heat haze among the leaves and branches. "Come on. Let's get the hell outta here. Place gives me the creeps."

Cole nodded and they got into their unmarked car. The officers left on guard duty at the site lifted the police barriers aside so their car could depart. They watched the car go as they put them back, pacing nervously and glancing round themselves like frightened rabbits.

Glax'll landed silently on the ground and glanced around the site. Bloodstains could still be seen in the grass and on the entrance hut. He could hear animals skitter away into the undergrowth as they sensed his presence. He slowly approached the four officers on duty. He saw no reason to kill them. He was only after certain prey.

He vaulted the barriers, startling the policemen who drew their pistols and began firing wildly at what was ultimately shadows. They failed to see his cloaked form dash past their vision and down the road beyond.

__________________________________________

Harrigon sat on his plush leather sofa as the night drew in and picked up his TV remote. The evening news had started on CNN and he watched it blankly as they rolled through the usual headlines of middle-eastern war, financial insecurity, and Presidential pandering.

"This just in," said the newsreader, "There has been a devastating attack at a paintball park in Wyoming. As many as fifteen people are reported to have been killed by a vicious gang of killers that the FBI has been on the search for since the drug gangs killing spree in Los Angeles in 1997. Officials are refusing to comment on the incident other than the LA case and the current massacre may be connected. We'll have more on this breaking story as it comes in."

Before the newsreader had finished speaking, he was on the phone.

___________________________________________________

Eliana growled with frustration as the phone rang. She had just sent Jerry, her five year old son, to bed and was hoping for a relaxing evening. She picked up.

"Hello, this better be good."

"Eliana, it's Mike."

"Mike? I haven't heard from you for…"

"Listen! They're back."

"Who's back?"

"_They_ are. The ugly dudes from 97."

Eliana sat down heavily in the nearest chair. "Oh my god. Are you sure?"

"Positive. I've just seen it on the news. Fifteen people massacred in a paintball park in Wyoming. FBI says it's all linked with what happened five years ago."

"They still using the serial killer rap?"

"Yeah. Course, we know better."

"So what are we going to do?"

"I'm not sure. Just watch out for men in dark glasses and funny phone calls."

"You got it. Stay in touch."

"You bet. Bye."

Eliana hung up the phone.

Almost immediately she started shaking.

_________________________________________________

In an isolated bunker somewhere in the American mid-west, Special Agent Garber and his forensic team poured over the evidence which lay before them. Cadavers were laid out on several tables, most of them skinned, one or two of them with gaps where their skulls and spinal columns should have been.

"I don't get it," said Garber, "These people were armed with paint guns for Christ's sake. It doesn't make any sense."

The head of the forensic team approached Garber with a clipboard. "Most of them were stabbed to death, except for three who were shot through by that laser of his. In all cases, death was probably instantaneous."

Garber nodded and walked down the short flight of steps to the tables, walking amongst them, inspecting each one closely. "If only the dead could talk," he muttered.

________________________________________________

Dutch watched the TV avidly in his quarters on barracks, seeing pictures from the Los Angeles incidents being shown time and again; the emaciated, skinless corpses hanging in Ramone's penthouse apartment; the passengers hanging from the support girders on board the underground train. 

All these images brought the things he had seen and ultimately confronted in the South American jungle flooding back. Anna covered in blood a few yards away from where Hawkins had been literally ripped apart in the undergrowth; Billy standing on the log, awaiting death, and the long piercing scream that followed moments later; he, the lone survivor apart from Anna, facing the deadly creature on it's own terms, finally ending in a life or death struggle whilst getting the worst beating of his life.

But the image that came back most of all was of the Predator himself; all seven muscular feet of him, his face a bizarre and ugly visage, pale and leathery and all tusks and teeth. The roar still haunted his dreams…

Enough was enough. He did not go through a year's worth of rehabilitation and a promotion to a desk job so he could have nightmares for the rest of his life. He had to face his fears, or end up a vegetable, a slave to his dreams.

He picked up the phone. He knew who he could phone to pull a few strings. He dialled the number for his old friend General Hughes, and prayed that he would get an answer.

___________________________________________

Harrigon did not sleep a wink. He tossed and turned, his own little collection of images passing through his already befuddled mind. He did not know what to make of the return of the creatures who had given him such an unusual gift. Part of him hated them for taking away most of his friends. But part of him called to them, feeling a kind of kindred spirit in them somehow. Perhaps that was why the pistol always held pride of place in his living room.

He got up and stared at the three quarter moon that hovered overhead, casting a pale light over the rooftops of the other condos in his suburb. _Yes, here we are in suburbia, the place to be. Going up in the world now, Mike. All the way._ He wished he could believe what he told himself. He could almost here Danny's sardonic voice saying those words, laced with cynicism. Danny. The thought of his old friend and his untimely death sliced into his being like a knife. It was a pain that only ebbed when he destroyed his killer on the Predators' ship. Knowing that there were others out there, a whole race primed for hunting down and destroying his kind, made him feel that he was somehow marked for death. And this new intrusion only heightened that sensation.

So why could he not bring himself to entirely condemn them? After all, they capped a few lowlifes, didn't they?

He shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. The time for talking to himself and sitting back on his laurels was over. He could probably assume that he was safe where he was, and feel justified in thinking that. But he remembered the look in Special Agent Garber's eyes when the Predators departed in their ship. _Goddamit, we came so close!_ He remembered those words, even now, and with Keys gone, he knew that Garber had to be running the show.

It would only be a matter of time before the Predator was spotted by the public. Wyoming is not the most heavily populated hunting ground for a creature who hunts only the things that can fight back.

That can fight back….

He stared at the moon, as though it were playing a recording back in his mind.

Paintball park.

What would those guys have been armed with to make a Predator attack them as game?

Paint guns.

Holy shit.

He sat on the bed. Innocent people died in LA, but they had firearms. The people who had died today could at worst give the alien a bad paint job.

Things were different this time.

And somehow, he would find out why.


	5. 5

5

Gerr'ka sat upon the roof of the house, watching the silver helicopter fly off towards the distant hills. He growled with frustration, knowing full well that his trophies were aboard.

He slid down the tiles and leapt off the roof, landing softly on the lawn. The noise he made had attracted attention, however; an upstairs light came on in the house. He engaged his cloaking device quickly as the porchway door opened and a man in a faded blue dressing gown stepped outside in his bare feet. He glanced around the garden.

"Felix?!" he cried. "Is that you?"

A meow sounded in the bushes as if in answer to the call. The man stepped down off the porch and walked onto the lawn, making kissing noises with his lips as he headed for the bushes.

"Come on, Felix. Come on, boy," he said in a high pitched voice.

Felix, a large ginger tom, padded slowly backwards, his fur standing on end, a low murmur issuing from his throat.

"Oh, come on, Felix, it's too hot to screw around out here!"

Gerr'ka stood right behind the man, observing his movements, his musculature, his bone structure…

The Predator reached down to his belt.

Felix saw the movement with his sensative vision and hissed vehemently.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Behind Felix's owner came a rapid whirring noise. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see what was behind him.

"Wanna come?"

The voice sounded guttural. Deep. Rumbling. Like someone with a big barrel chest trying to whisper. He couldn't stop himself from turning round.

He saw the golden metal spear seemingly hanging in mid-air. He didn't believe what he was seeing at first. He wiped his eyes and saw it pointing at him. For a brief moment, he thought he was hallucinating, until he felt the spear impale him through his stomach and out of his back.

The spear ruptured his diaphragm so he could not even draw breath to scream. He slid further onto the spear as he slumped forward, his blood gushing from the gaping wound in his middle. A trickle came from his mouth as the air left his lungs for the last time. Gerr'ka yanked the spear out and let the man's body fall into the puddle of it's own blood.

Felix made off into the house, running past Gerr'ka as he squatted beside the body and tore out it's spinal column.

______________________________________

Harrigon took in the splendour of the trees and hills of Wyoming as the plane circled in towards the airport. Devil's Tower stood in prominence over the landscape, the arable land surrounding it lush and flat.

The plane landed smoothly, much to Harrigon's relief. He didn't like flying as much as he used to. It made him feel vulnerable after the events of five years before. He couldn't look out of the window of a passenger jet without thinking that one of their ships may pull alongside and blast them all to kingdom come out of some sort of revenge.

He checked in and collected his luggage, hailing a cab as he exited the airport. He arrived at his hotel shortly afterwards, planting his luggage down with an over-emphasised sense of relief. He picked up the hotel literature and looked at what wonders room service had to offer.

He picked up the phone and dialled for an outside line. A few moments later, the phone was picked up. "Eleona?"

"Hi, Mike. You made it OK then."

"Yeah. You made any progress?"

"Well, I've asked around the department. No-one has any records left of the incidents in '97. It's as you thought, Mike, the Feds wiped out everything except for a few minor details."

"Did you manage to find anything out about the investigation going on here?"

"Yes. A Detective Murray is heading the investigation into the Paintball Massacre."

Mike smiled grimly. "Yeah. I've seen the headlines. Pretty sick, huh?"

"Trying to make it sound like a Saturday night horror flick!"

"OK. I'll get in touch with Murray. Anything else?"

"Yeah, and you're gonna love it. Apparently, Murray won't stop going on about some asswipe Fed who rained on his parade yesterday. Guess who?"

Realisation dawned immediately on Mike's face. "Garber."

"The same."

"He must be in charge of the outfit that was set up to catch this thing. Son of a bitch!"

"Watch yourself, Mike. He's in your area right now. If he sees you, he might want to have a little talk with you _and_ our ugly friend."

"You know me. Discretion is my middle name."

Eleona laughed. "Yeah, right! Keep in touch."

"You bet."

Mike put the phone down, feeling immediately better after that conversation. He might be able to work with the local police on this and pass himself off as an expert on the 'serial killers'. He wasn't sure they were ready for the truth yet.

He picked up the phone again and ordered some coffee.

________________________________________

The green Army jeep pulled up on the tarmac. Dutch climbed out in full dress uniform and looked at the jet waiting to take him off his base for the first time in five years. He swallowed his apprehension. He had to keep a cool head.

The corporal who had driven him to the airfield saluted smartly and lifted Dutch's civvies case out of the back of the jeep. He followed Dutch up the steps. Dutch turned and took the case off the Corporal. "It's OK. I'll take it from here."

"Sir, yes, sir!" The Corporal saluted, turned on his heel and walked back to his jeep. Dutch shook his head. _Did I used to be like that?_ He walked into the plane, the door shut behind him by the pilot.

Minutes later, the plane was taking off, heading west for the new Devil's Tower Army Base in Wyoming. His transfer was the first step.

He was wondering what his next few steps were going to be to find closure.

________________________________________

The jeep pulled into the compound buried deep within the mountain. The track led to a tunnel dug into the end of the blocked canyon that led to the base of the tower. Darkness enfolded the jeep briefly, then faint lights began to show some detail of the complex.

The jeep was in a parking bay for the other military vehicles in the base. Dutch stepped out of the jeep and marched up to the young plain clothes officer waiting to greet him.

"Welcome to Devil's Tower," said the young officer, "I'm Special Agent Garber."

_______________________________________________


End file.
